Fleur Delacour (la_jolie_fleur) wrote,
Fleur Delacour

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lost in a good way.

"i cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
but, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
wherewith the seasonable month endows
the grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
white hawthorne, and the pastoral eglantine;
fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
and mid-may's eldest child,
the coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves
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